


My Hands Pass Through

by coldfiredragon



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blood, Consensual Underage Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marking, Quentin and Eliot bond as children, References to Depression, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing, a world where soulmates bond because of emotional trauma, but won't meet until they are adults
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-27 08:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13244463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldfiredragon/pseuds/coldfiredragon
Summary: Quentin’s soulmark formed with the phantom taste of blood in his mouth, and left a beautiful, detailed mark on his side.  Quentin, in love with all things magic, embraces the idea of a bonded soul – but his bond-mate isn’t so enthusiastic.





	1. Chapter 1

His soul mark had manifested with a wash of terror, a burst of pain along his side, and the taste of phantom blood in the back of his mouth. The rush of emotion and fragments of memory had taken Quentin to the ground and doubled him over his knees as he'd cried. He'd lost consciousness to the sound of Julia screaming for help and he'd woken up in a hospital room as a specialist tried to explain how a soul mark worked to his father. 

Quentin had quietly curled up on his side and pretended to sleep as he listened to the specialist explain that the bonds tended to form when one partner suffered an extreme emotional trauma. With his eyes closed, Quentin tried to figure out what had happened to the boy he'd bonded with. He knew it was a boy, and he could feel the sharp ache of terror and guilt radiating along the raw connection they had formed. 

He listened to the doctor explain to his dad that if he agreed to it, there were procedures that would sever the bond. The thought terrified him. Somewhere there was another kid, who, in the worst moment of his life had unintentionally reached out for comfort and found him in the process. It made Quentin feel bad. He'd only just turned thirteen and at some moments was so deeply depressed that he couldn't take care of himself. How was he supposed to help someone who had it worse?

“Q? Are you awake?” Quentin hadn't realized that he'd started to cry until he opened his eyes to look at his father. The man sat beside him and indulged him in a rare bear hug. Quentin snuggled into the embrace and sniffled, and clumsily tried to push some of the safety and comfort he was being showered with along the bond. “We can make it go away if you want.” His dad told him. “You didn't ask for this. You don't have to live with it for the rest of your life. There's a good chance you'll never meet the person you bonded with.” 

“No!” Quentin insisted quickly. This had happened for a reason. The whole ordeal felt incredibly daunting. It terrified him a lot, but it didn't feel random.

“Q, it's all right to reject this.”

“No, dad, please!” The thought of breaking the connection made him feel sick. 

“Your son is old enough that no one will do the procedure without his consent.” Quentin heard the specialist remind his dad. His father let him go to stand and face the other man. 

“He's thirteen!” 

“This situation happens often enough that there are clear legal precedents. If Quentin were twelve or younger, the decision would lie in your hands, but once he turned thirteen it became his choice to make. There isn't a time limit on this choice, Mr. Coldwater If your son changes his mind the bond can be severed at any age.” Quentin saw his father's shoulders slump in defeat. He was quietly relieved. It was nice to have his options stated so plainly for him before people tried to influence him into making a decision. 

The hospital kept him for observation for the rest of the afternoon, and his dad stopped at a drive-through to get burgers on their way home. Quentin ate when they got back, then got his computer and went to his room. Research would help him understand what had happened to him. He hadn't gotten a good look at the mark in the hospital because he'd been embarrassed to peek when he'd been wearing a gown, but standing in front of the mirror with his shirt off was more comfortable. The mark had manifested as an intricately detailed pocket watch on his side. It was beautiful, and Quentin decided that nothing would ever convince him to get rid of it. 

After an hour of shifting through fanfiction and half-baked theory, he called Julia for help. He was good at research, but Julia was better. The next morning she showed up at his house around 11 with a pile of books from the library. She had brought essays, and clinical studies and the thought of sifting through all of it made Quentin feel exhausted. He hadn't slept well during the night, which he supposed made sense. If he'd gone through whatever had happened to his bond mate, he wouldn't have slept either. 

Of course, the first thing his best friend wanted was to see his mark, and Quentin yanked up his t-shirt to show her. Julia had gasped in awe and reached to touch it. Her fingers were gentle, but the skin and muscle were still tender. Quentin quickly backed out of her range and pulled his shirt down again. It wasn't her mark to touch, and he felt protective of it. 

The two of them sat in his room for hours and read. The clinical studies weren't a lot of help. They were packed with jargon and cited sources that Julia hadn't brought in her pile. They seemed to suggest the same basic ideas though, then Julia found the book with the pictures. It wasn't a children's book, not by any stretch, but someone had done a photographic study of couples with identical marks. Short interviews described what it had felt like for their mark to manifest, and detailed the different kinds of bonds that were formed. Some pairs had fragile connections, and their marks tended to be identical blotches of color. Other couples had super-detailed marks like he did and their bonds were deep. 

Quentin closed the book. It was the most helpful text he'd found during their reading. He leaned back against his bedpost and rubbed his side. He'd only gotten sleepier as the afternoon wore on and he let Julia continue to read as he closed his eyes. He didn't mean to fall asleep on her, but he woke up when his dad checked on them to tell them he'd ordered pizza. The two of them headed downstairs to eat, and they watched a movie together afterward. She had to home as the afternoon progressed to evening and Quentin went back to his room to lay down. 

He was startled awake near the middle of the night and sniffled in frustration. He tried to push positive emotions along the bond because the books had suggested that you could do that with really strong bonds. He wanted to help; he felt like he had a responsibility to help if he could. Mostly he just didn't want the other boy to feel so alone. 

Sleep had almost reclaimed him when he felt a tentative, experimental push-back. It differed from the mix of exhausted, guilt-ridden misery he'd felt so far and it left Quentin brimming with excitement. The bond apparently went both ways, and he let unbridled exuberance flow across the mental link. A linked soul was the closest he'd probably ever get to experiencing actual magic. It was something that could have come straight out of one of the Fillory books. 

The second pushback was stronger, but there wasn't a hint of excitement in it. A tight knot of remorse, guilt, self-loathing, and repentance washed away Quentin's momentary happiness as quickly as it had manifested. It took Quentin a handful of minutes to dissect the knotted emotions and recognize them for the apology they were meant to be. The kid hated himself, not just for whatever had happened, but for forcing all his pain on someone else in the process. 

Quentin wished they could talk face to face, so it would be clear that he didn't hold a grudge for their link. It was scary that someone could feel his emotions, but maybe it could be good too. This didn't have to be a bad experience. Desperate to make the other kid understand how he felt Quentin tried to gather everything positive he felt about their link and push it across the bond all at once. He didn't want an apology from the other guy; he wanted a new friend – even if it was one he might never meet in person.

\--------------------------

Eliot pulled the thin sheets tighter around his shoulders and did his best not to cry any louder than he had to. His room was the one his parents used as a nursery, and it shared a wall with their bedroom. Eliot, being the youngest of his parents' children, hadn't been forced to move out of it yet. His father had already thrown the bedroom door open once because he'd overheard him, and Eliot didn't want a bad situation to escalate. 

Eliot rubbed his hand along his side and tried not to sniffle. Having a soul mark made him an even more prominent outcast than being gay did. There weren't a lot of couples in his community who had marks, and the one pair he did know had been high school sweethearts who had been in a car accident together. His mother was trying to be sympathetic to him because of what he'd witnessed. His father, on the other hand, was furious that any hope he'd held onto of having his youngest son settle down with a pretty girl was now gone. 

A babble of excitement leaked across the newly formed mental link. Eliot felt horrible. He'd roped some sweet, innocent kid into his trainwreck of a life. Eagerness continued to radiate across the bond, and Eliot swallowed a sob. It would be so easy to lean into the comfort the other boy seemed to be offering, but he was afraid – terrified was more accurate. Eliot felt that as soon as he started to rely on the link, it would be cut away. Soulmarks were formed by trauma, and often got severed when one partner couldn't cope with their mate's pain. 

He got the impression that the other boy was younger than he was if he was too young his parents could hire someone and sever the bond no matter what the kid wanted. Eliot had seen it happen. When he'd been eleven, a girl in his math class had formed her mark in front of all of them. Eliot remembered how Amelia had screamed as cherry blossom blooms formed on her arm. She had been rushed to the hospital and when she'd come back to school the next week the blossoms were gone, Amelia's bubbly bright personality with them. She had killed herself when they were thirteen. Eliot knew exactly what he'd done to the boy he'd bonded with, and it felt safer to wait for the watch on his side to disappear. He'd deal with the loss when it happened.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot has accepted that somewhere in the world he has a soulmate, and realizes in the process that he's never going to love anyone that same way he loves someone he might never meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, this fic is going to go dark places. Please read the tags! I can't stress this enough. Read the tags, and be prepared. These boys won't truly be happy until they find one another. If there something you would like to see in this fic, let me know! I'm open to having readers guide this fic a little bit!
> 
> There isn't much Quentin in this chapter, but we'll get back to him in the next one! Don't worry.

The house party raged downstairs, and Eliot tipped his flask against his lips as Derek gripped his hand and guided him up the stairs towards his bedroom. The other student was older than he was, but because Eliot had skipped a grade they shared classes together. The bedroom door clicked closed behind them, and Eliot capped his flask, then kicked off his tennis shoes before moving to kneel on the floor in front of the bed. Amber eyes flicked to the door, and Eliot wet his lips as he watched Derek twist the dead-bolt. The other boy's hand ruffled his curls as he passed him to sit in front of him. 

“Come here, Pretty Boy. Have you been good this week?” 

“Yes,” Eliot shuffled closer and rested his hands on his legs. His gazed fixed near the middle of Derek's thigh.

“Yes?”

“Yes, Sir,” Eliot whispered. Derek's hand gripped his chin, and Eliot let his face get tilted upwards. 

“That's better. I swear you keep getting prettier.” Derek praised as he tugged Eliot's chin higher. Eliot straightened his back to accommodate Derek as the older boy leaned down to kiss his mouth. Derek's hand tangled in his hair to keep him where he wanted him. “You can start,” Derek told him as his hand slipped free from the locks. 

“Yes, sir,” Eliot whispered again. He lifted his hands from his legs and rested one hand on the older boy's thigh as he pulled down the zipper of Derek's jeans with the other. It didn't take long to have Derek bucking against his mouth and hands. Calloused fingers gripped the back of his neck and forced his head down, right as Eliot had planned to take a breath. His lungs burned, and he pulled up. Worry that he might bite down or knick Derek with his teeth made panic clamp in his belly. It completely wiped away the arousal he'd felt. His hand squeezed against Derek's thigh until his neck was released. Tears streaked down his face as he coughed.

“El? Can you finish?” The words weren't exactly unkind. Derek's fingers pet a curl back behind his ear, Eliot shook his head. He rested his cheek against Derek's knee and sniffled. The tears quickly turned to quiet sobs. It didn't seem like he could manage to do anything right. “Hey, El, come on now.” Derek's hand continued to play with his hair. 

“I don't want you to move.” Piles of cardboard boxes were stacked in corners. The party downstairs was the last one Derek would have before his parents relocated the family to California, and now Eliot had messed up their last night together. Their relationship had never been love. They had never really even considered themselves a couple. Derek was just the first kid about his age that Eliot had met who hadn't minded that there was a mark on his side. All the other boy had asked for was a good time when they got together. 

“Well, nothing is changing that. Come up here.” Derek grabbed tissues to wipe himself clean, then tucked himself back into his jeans. He made room on the bed, and Eliot stretched out beside him. The two of them lay in silence. Eliot could feel concern from his mate push against their bond. He realized how the plea to Derek must have been interpreted by his partner. 

Eliot rested his hand against his side and closed his eyes as he tried to sooth the other boy's anxiety. As weeks had tracked into months without the mark fading, he had rapidly started to fall in love with the boy on the other end. It hurt because he realized that the only person who would make him feel complete was some guy he would probably never meet.

“Do you still want to fuck me?” Eliot asked. Derek propped himself up on one elbow and looked him over. 

“Are you going to get into it?” Eliot reached down towards the floor and pulled his flask to his hand with his powers. Derek was on the other side of the bed, and there wasn't much light in the room, so he was confident Derek couldn't see the display of power. He sat up enough so he wouldn't choke, and downed a shot or so before passing the flask. 

“If you want me to.” He'd think about someone else, about another boy with silky brown hair and a shy smile, whose name he might never learn. Derek capped the flask when he'd finished and lowered it to the floor. Thick fingers tugged at the little buttons of Eliot's shirt. Eliot tipped his chin to give the older boy the best access to his throat. When Derek's teeth bit hard enough to mark, he couldn't stop the gasp. Eliot doubted he would ever have the relationship he wanted, so he needed to learn to take what he could get from anyone who had something to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are massively appreciated! This is kind of an open fic! If there is something you want to see from either Quentin or Eliot's perspective let me know in the comments!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin's depression pushes him to his limit, and Eliot deals with the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings aplenty for this chapter! self-harm, and blood, and the aftermath of a suicide attempt. Please read the story tags! 
> 
> Did you read them and are still here? Then enjoy the new chapter!

_'It's not you, I'm sorry, I love you. It's not you, I'm sorry, I love you.'_

Quentin isn't sure if it's possible for specific words to travel across a soulbond but he repeats them on loop in his mind regardless. He wants his mate to know that this isn't his fault. His brain was screwed up long before their soul bond had formed. If he was honest, his mark was probably the only reason he hadn't done this sooner. 

_'It's not your fault, it's not your fault, I'm sorry. It's not your fault.'_

Blood beaded on his skin then poured through the tear as the cut lengthened. Quentin had already started the second slice on the same wrist when his mantra was interrupted by a frenzy of panic and fear, and words, for the first time, words.

_'Please stop, please, please. I don't want to lose you.'_

The desperate, terrified pleas of his bond-mate were the first thing to cut through the fog of uselessness that Quentin had been swimming through for weeks. For the first time since Quentin had picked up the razor, he was scared. He grabbed a nearby towel and pressed it against his forearm, and yelled for his father. He'd definitely earned a stay in a psych ward for this if he made it to the hospital at all. The towel was soaking with blood, and he did his best to hold the wounds closed.

“Fuck.” Quentin's gaze shot up to where his father stood in the mouth of the bathroom door. He'd gone as pale as a sheet, and Quentin felt horrible for ever letting his brain trick him into thinking that this was a solution. He blinked away tears and pressed more furiously at his arm. 

Blood seemed to be streaked everywhere. It had stained his shirt and jeans and dripped onto the tile. Quentin was vaguely aware of his father calling an ambulance. He felt light-headed. A fresh towel got pressed against his arm, and it was his father's turn to put pressure on the cuts. “Q? Listen to me; we are getting that thing on your side removed. Okay?” Quentin blinked at him in horror and shook his head.

“No.” 

“Quentin, I'm telling you it's best. I know what all your doctors have said, but I don't think you would have done this if you didn't have a mark like that.” Despite how tired he felt Quentin made himself focus on his father's words, and they made him angry. Blood slick fingers reached and wrapped tight around the older man's shirt front. 

“I won't forgive you.” He promised. His father looked stricken. “My bond is the only reason I stopped. My partner panicked, and I felt it, and he begged me to stop cutting. He cares about me. You can't take that away.” His father closed his eyes, and the man inclined his head skyward for a moment. Quentin wasn't sure if it was a silent prayer of thanks or one for patience. He hoped he'd made himself clear, and that his father understood. He was too exhausted to keep arguing.

“Alright, Q, fine. Just forget it for now.” His father wrapped the towel around his arm in layers, then tied it tight so it would stay before scooping him off the floor. 

\-----------------------------

Eliot clamped his hand over his forearm and leaned over his lap. The pile of dinner plates he had dropped lay shattered in a semi-circle around him. He was afraid to look at his arm. Guilt clouded his mind. He should have realized something was wrong when his bond had felt muted over the last couple of weeks. The little emotion he had felt had been muddled. That wasn't the case now. The link had sprung back to life like an electrified wire. It had started with a desperate whisper against the back of his mind. 

_'Sorry. Not your fault.'_

That had been his only warning before an invisible blade dragged downward along his arm. The skin on the inside of his wrist felt like it was on fire and a line had appeared. It hadn't bled, but it looked like he'd taken a razor to his wrist and the injury had been given weeks to heal. Eliot had panicked, dropped the plates, and sank to his knees as he'd silently pleaded for it to end, for his mate to stop. The only thing he cared about in the world was their bond, and even that was about to get taken away.

_'I don't want to lose you.'_

The thought had echoed across the bond, and it triggered something. Eliot wondered if his mate had actually heard the words, or just gotten their vague impressions. Fear sparked along the link. It was the first sharp emotion he'd felt from his partner in weeks; then there was anger. At first, Eliot worried that the other boy was mad at him, but he realized that it was directed at something external.

“Eliot? El, baby?” Eliot forced his eyes open and blinked through his tears at his mother. She'd watched the whole episode from where she stood at the stove. 

“He tried to kill himself.” Eliot lifted his hand off his arm to stare at his wrist. One long mark stood against the skin, and a second shorter one stood beside it. He wasn't sure if they would fade. 

“That thing is going to kill you.” His mother whispered. She knelt down to start picking up fragments of porcelain. “You need to consider having it severed.” 

“No! Mom, I....” How was he supposed to explain how important it was? Eliot lurched forward to help her clean up the mess he'd made. Silence lingered between them. His mother sniffed. “Mom?” 

“I don't know how you are so damn brilliant and so fucking stupid at the same time.” She snapped at him. She wiped her fingers under her eye. “Go put on a shirt with long sleeves before your father sees your arm.” 

“But the plates.” 

“I'll clean this up. I'll even tell your dad I dropped them too. I'll tell him a mouse ran across my foot. We need more barn cats anyway.” 

“But I was supposed to set the table.”

“I'll tell him I made you finish your homework.” 

“Mom...”

“I said to go change!” She barked at him.

“Yes, Ma'am.” Eliot stood and stepped around her, then hurried out of the kitchen. When his oldest brother had left for college, he'd managed to move his things out of the room that shared the wall with his parent's room. The new space wasn't much larger than his old room, but it was more private. He yanked a long sleeved cotton shirt off one of the hangers and dug the watch with the broadest band from his desk drawer. The combination hid most of new scar tissue.

His bond had been quiet since the explosion of anger and Eliot reached across it. The mark hadn't disappeared, and he still felt something on the other end of the link. Maybe his mate had fallen unconscious; if that was the case, he hoped that someone was close enough to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written something like this, so I hope I handled it with some grace, and that it wasn't too unrealistic. Feel free to let me know if I need to edit it to make it better. I'm open to critiques. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are welcome! If you want to see something specific let me know! I have one more chapter planned as an aftermath to this one! It will be much softer and more of a healing moment. I'd really love to incorporate scenes readers want to see so send me requests in the comments.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin spends some time in the hospital, and finally starts to feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there's anything triggery in this chapter, so enjoy the almost fluff that is the new chapter!

“Eliot, I'm talking to you.” 

“Huh?” Eliot snapped his head up from the textbook he'd been staring at for the last hour to look at his mother. 

“Did you hear a word I just said?” 

“No. I'm sorry, I guess I spaced out,” Eliot confessed. He closed his book and leaned his head against the back of the sofa. 

“I asked if your chores are done.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” Eliot rubbed his wrist. Poison ivy or something similar had gotten on the skin when he'd been in the barn that morning, and it had been bothering him since. 

“Is your homework done for the weekend?” Eliot nodded. 

“I was trying to read ahead a little.” It wasn't exactly a lie. He'd read the book cover to cover out of boredom within the first weeks of the semester. 

“Has your dad given you your allowance this week?” A soft bitter laugh built in Eliot's throat. He was sure dad had given both Terry and Adam what they were due, but money tended to come short, or late, when it was his turn. Now that Rob was in college it had gotten worse because his father wanted to save as much as he could so he could go to a couple his oldest son's football games.

“Don't worry about it.” Eliot titled his head and rested his cheek against the worn sofa cover. He heard his mother sigh in frustration, and he waited until she had left the room before he drew his legs up against his chest.

“Here.” Eliot blinked and turned his head to see her holding a pair of twenties and a short grocery list. 

“Mom, it's not a big deal.”

“Yes, it is.” 

“Mom, please.”

“I want you to go do something for a couple of hours. If you're home by 4:30 and have everything on my list, you can keep the rest.”

“What do you want me to do?” He hadn't felt like doing anything in days.

“Go outside and get some fresh air. Take your bike into town and read at the library, or the park. I don't care. Just get off my couch.” She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Maybe if you feel better, he'll feel better too. I don't know if it works that way or not.” Eliot didn't know if it worked that way either, but he took the money and went to get his backpack and bike helmet.

It was Spring, and the twenty-minute ride into town did make him feel better. He chained his bike to the rack in front of the library and shoved his helmet into his bag. A comb and small compact were tucked in one of the side pockets, and he did his best to try and style the unruly curls his helmet had flattened. He took another minute to straighten his clothes then jogged up the steps to the building's main door.

Rereading one of his textbooks felt pointless. He needed to read something that was light and escapist, like Tolkien, or Rowling, or Plover. It had been years since he'd read any of the Fillory books. They were all about leaving the real world behind for a bit. It took him a few minutes to find a beaten copy of the first book. It was hardcover and had a flimsy see-through plastic book jacket that was starting to yellow and crack around the edges. 

An armchair near the windows seemed like a good place to read, and he curled up in it, then flipped the book to the start of chapter five. He'd always liked that section. His wrist still itched and he stopped after reading a few pages to scratch it. 

\--------------------------------

Quentin was in the middle of chapter five of the first Fillory book when the urge to mess with his hospital bracelet got the better of him. The thing had started to rub after the first couple of days, and the skin was getting irritated. He knew that the more he messed with it, the more likely it was that someone would notice. They might think he was trying to hurt himself, and he wanted to go home. 

When he'd been released from the ER into the psych ward, his doctor had started him on a new mix of prescriptions to try and figure out a combination that might help. Mostly they had just left him lethargic and sleepy. He'd spent most of the time in his room, but this afternoon he'd felt adventurous enough to go into one of the common rooms and read.

He'd found a comfortable chair in a patch of sun and curled up with the ratty paperback copy of his favorite book. It was a far cry from the meticulously cared for first edition he had at home but the story was the same, and the characters were familiar. 

“Good afternoon, Quentin.” Quentin glanced up at his doctor and gave her a weak smile. He marked the book with a ripped piece of paper and tucked the hair back behind his ears. No matter how comfortable he was with his doctors, they always made him nervous. At least this one wasn't trying to treat him like a lost cause or suggesting that he might be better off without a soul-bond. He'd visited a doctor who had recommended that once and refused to go back again. 

“Hi, Doctor Keller.” 

“Are you feeling better this afternoon?” She got a chair and parked it in front of his, then sat down. Quentin tucked his feet under him. He shifted the worn paper back from one hand to the other. 

“A little. I wanted to be out of my room. That's better right?” 

“That's an improvement, yes. What book did you choose?” Quentin turned it over to show her. He half expected to be admonished for reading a children's fantasy book. 

“Are you enjoying it?” She asked. 

“It's my favorite series.” The urge to rub at his wrist was rising again, and he looked down at the bracelet. He knew they couldn't switch the wrist it was on. There were stitches under the bandages on his other arm, and he didn't want to risk tearing those out. Maybe if he showed her the irritation and asked for help, it would be a positive sign of progress. 

“Quentin?” 

“Can you do something about this? The band is rubbing, and I'm trying to leave it alone, but it itches.” The words spilled out all at once, and he pushed the band aside as much as he could to show her. 

“Yes, I think we can do something about that.” Quentin let out a sigh of relief. 

“Okay.” He tucked his hair back behind his ears again.

“I want to go home.” He confessed quietly, he missed his dad, and Julia, even his classes. 

“We are working on making that possible, Quentin. Give it another day or so to see if the new medication keeps helping, and hopefully, we can arrange that.” Quentin nodded “I'll have someone look at your wrist as soon as they have time. Enjoy your book.” She got up to leave him alone, and Quentin dropped bonelessly back into the chair. It took a couple of minutes to start reading again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated! If there's something you want to see incorporated into the story please feel free to ask!


End file.
